


written in the scars on our hearts

by CarrKicksDoor



Series: a thousand conversations yet to be had [1]
Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M, Tissue Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrKicksDoor/pseuds/CarrKicksDoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The end of September is never good.  The nightmares start up, almost like clockwork, just as they have for the last twelve years, ever since he found himself an orphan and single parent."</p><p>Darcy has to remind himself every year that life still goes on, and Lizzie has to learn how she can help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3:00 am, September 29th

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Pink's song "Just Give Me a Reason."

The end of September is never good.  The nightmares start up, almost like clockwork, just as they have for the last twelve years, ever since he found himself an orphan and single parent. 

He doesn’t mean to wake Lizzie when he finally comes to bed, but he does anyway.  “Will?” her sleepy voice says from her side of the bed.  “It’s three o’clock.  You haven’t been working all night, have you?”

He puts his glasses down on the nightstand.  “No,” he says softly.  “I just wasn’t tired.  Go back to sleep.”

“You’re going to be tired in the morning,” she says, waiting for him to crawl under the covers.  She nestles herself up next to him, and he sighs as he tries to pull some of the blankets back from where she’s stolen them, but even as her breath evens out and he feels her body relax back into sleep, William Darcy lies awake in the darkness of their bedroom, watching the dim lights from the street below flicker across the ceiling.

It is a sign of his own failure at communicating, he thinks.  Last year, he hadn’t had to say anything, and she hadn’t noticed.  She’d had her own apartment her first year in San Francisco, though the frequency with which they stayed with one another had meant he’d not had any trouble convincing her to move in with him when her lease was up.  Last September, she’d also been knee deep trying to get Bennet Productions off the ground, and she’d been the one barely sleeping, and for nearly half the month, she’d been in New York or Chicago, meeting with investors.

Now things are running more smoothly, and she would listen to anything he had to say, but this pain is still so deep, so harsh, that he still doesn’t speak of it.

 

Knowing he didn’t get much sleep, Lizzie has a full pot of coffee waiting on him when he gets up the next morning.  “Thank you,” he mumbles, drinking his first mug black in three long gulps as he waits for the caffeine to hit his system.   Her face is concerned as she takes in the dark circles under his eyes.  “You should try to hit one of the napping pods at some point today,” she says.  “Next time, if you can’t sleep, I’ve got some Tylenol PM.”

He hates taking anything like that.  It just makes it more difficult to wake up out of a dream when he has one, but he nods and wonders how long he can function on the pot of coffee before he crashes.

 

He does take advantage of one of the napping pods for forty-five minutes that afternoon, and that gives Darcy enough to go on to get through his day.  He’s exhausted enough that he’s out almost before his head hits the pillow, barely even registering Lizzie’s warm presence wrapping itself around him.

The nightmare feels like it starts immediately.  He’s back in his sophomore year at Harvard, and he and Fitz are trying to convince Bing Lee, who’s a freshman, to come see a horror movie the international film club is showing to start off October, when his phone rings.  His aunt Catherine is on the other end, her voice tighter than usual, when she tells him that the private plane his parents were on has gone down. 

Bing and Fitz get him into a chair, and Fitz grabs the phone as it drops from Darcy’s fingers.  Darcy’s hyperventilating, and Bing finds a bag for him to breathe into as Fitz hurriedly writes down notes Catherine is dictating over the phone, his usually happy-go-lucky expression grim.

The scene shifts, and he’s back home, back in the house outside San Francisco, just after dawn, and he can barely bring himself to open the door, but he has to, because Gigi is here, and she’s already had to wait all night for her big brother to get home, and _he has to take care of her because he’s all she has_.

 _She’s all he has too_.

She’s bundled up on the couch downstairs, but awake.  He’s nineteen, and she’s nine, and they’re both too young for this.  He picks her up and holds her.  “But they could still be out there, right?” she whispers.  “They haven’t found them yet, right?”

He knows the odds, knows the statistics, but he feels that little bit of hope still in his heart too, the little bit of hope he sees in her eyes.  “They’re going to keep looking, Gigi.”

Catherine arrives a few hours later, trying to keep both he and Gigi distracted, but he finally cuts his aunt off.  He sends emails to professors, explaining his sudden absence, and is a little sick at his stomach that he got on an airplane to get here the night before.

At four o’clock, the sheriff asks if they can come to the county morgue, and that is when Darcy is grateful for his aunt, because she tells him to stay home, because she will take care of identifying her brother and her sister-in-law.   When she returns a few hours later, he can tell by her expression that the hope is gone.

He holds back the tears.  He insists on being the one to tell Gigi.  He’s her big brother, and now he’s her protector, from now until forever.   He goes into the living room where his sister is watching cartoons, still wrapped up in her blanket, and as he reaches for the remote to turn the television off, he can barely breathe past the lump in his throat because _oh God_ , he’s going to be the one who has to tell her the news that takes away her childhood.

Her lip trembles as she asks if he’s sure, if he’s positive that it was them, if there was no mistake, and he closes his eyes as he nods and tells her that it’s true.  She bursts into tears and buries her face in his chest, and as he wraps his arms around her, he can’t keep from crying himself.

Then he’s at the funeral, and the caskets are closed, and he hates that, hates that he couldn’t look at them one more time to say goodbye.  Gigi has flowers for the coffins, and she holds tightly to his hand through the whole service.  Afterward, at the house, George and Fitz play a board game with Gigi while Darcy has the first knockdown, drag-out fight he will have with his aunt Catherine.  She thinks Gigi should attend a boarding school in London, beginning in January, while Darcy finishes his degree at Harvard.  He refuses.

“William!” she says shrilly, “You don’t understand.  It’s Harvard, and you are a young man.  You need this experience!  We will find an interim CEO for Pemberley, but if you want to retain control, you will have to finish, and you can’t do that-“

“Stop!” he roars back at her.  “I’m not doing it!”

“Will!” she yells, frustrated.  “Will!”

His name being called wakes him out of the nightmare, and he opens his eyes to realize that the lamp on Lizzie’s side of the bed is on.  She’s leaning over him, looking concerned.  He takes in a deep breath.  “Are you okay?” she asks.  “You were making noises in your sleep.  Like, distressed noises.”

His heart is racing from being woken out of the dream, and he runs a hand over his face.  “I’m sorry.  Bad dream.  I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Lizzie says, her expression still concerned, moreso when he sits up and gets out of the bed.  He heads to the bathroom and splashes water on his face, and takes a good look at himself in the mirror.  He looks like hell.

He comes back to bed.  He’s still exhausted, and he doesn’t want her to worry.  She’s almost frowning, but not quite—just a wrinkle in her forehead gives away her state of mind.  “You can turn the light off,” he says.

She does as he implicitly asks, but he can feel her gaze still on him in the dark, and she lays her hand on his bare chest, right over his heart.  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

Her phrasing is perfect—she is there, open to talking, ready to listen, even though it’s so late that it’s early, but she’s not pushing, because she knows him and knows how he has to get things straight in his mind before he says them or they come out wrong.  “I’m all right,” he says, covering her hand with his.  He draws her hand up to his lips, kissing her fingertips before returning her hand to his chest.  “Let’s just go back to sleep.”


	2. Noon, September 30th

Lizzie meets Fitz for lunch, and she’s surprised when he asks “How’s Darcy?”

“He’s fine,” she says, giving Fitz a look, because there was something behind the question that says, in a very Fitz way, that he’s not just asking.  “You talked to him yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but ‘fine’ to his best friend and ‘fine’ to his girlfriend are two different things,” Fitz explains.  He fixes her with a stare.  “You do know what this week is, right?”

She shakes her head, wondering what she’s missed, and Fitz sighs, covering his eyes with his hand.  “Darcy, my man, when are you going to learn to actually talk to people?” he groans to the sky before turning back to her.  “Lizzie, October 2nd is the day that the Darcys died.”

She puts down her fork, her appetite completely gone.  “Oh my God.  I didn’t know.”

“He doesn’t talk about it,” Fitz says.  “I mean, I guess he does with Gigi.  I don’t know.  Bing and I were both around when it happened, and we told him he could call any time.  We’ve been friends for more than ten years at this point, but he doesn’t talk about it.”

“I should have asked,” Lizzie says, feeling the guilt fall down on her shoulders.  “We’ve been together a year and a half.  It should have occurred to me at some point that this would—“

“No,” Fitz says, stopping her midstream.  “Lizzie B, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Yes, you should have,” Lizzie says.  “I should know these things, Fitz.  There may not be a lot that I can do, but I can be there.”  She sighs.  “And this does explain the last couple of days.  He’s not sleeping.”

“From what I can tell, he doesn’t around this time of year,” Fitz says.  “He’ll probably take a day or two off work at the end of the week.  Don’t mention this to him, but be there, Lizzie.  Just knowing you’re there will help.”

She keeps that in mind.  Will texts her to tell her he’ll be a little late, and that gives her time to go to the store before she heads home.  Her mother is from the South, and when people need comfort in the South, it means food, so she’ll cook dinner tonight.  Fried chicken and homemade biscuits and green beans, she thinks, because mashed potatoes would just be too much starch in one meal, and she snags an angel food cake and some strawberries and some Cool Whip to make a trifle for dessert, because it’s simple, but she knows Will loves it.  She’s just put the chicken in the pan, memories floating up of doing this in the kitchen where she grew up when she feels her heart clench. 

For all her mother’s fluttering and general insanity, life without her would be unthinkable.  She’s kept things from her mother, especially over the last few years, but she’s always been able to go to her mother when things are wrong, been able to put her head in her mother’s lap, let her mother stroke her hair and let her mother tell her that everything would be okay and then she’s been able to believe it.

Her father is a different kind of comfort.  She can go to him, smell the smoke from his pipe, though they’ve all tried to get him to quit, sit in absolute quiet with him until she’s ready to talk.  He will listen, and then he’ll ask the uncomfortable questions she doesn’t want to ask herself, give her the sage advice she needs, and kiss her forehead because she is his daughter and he loves her, then tease her to make her feel better.  Her mother says that her father is very wise, and it is very true.

She picks up the phone and calls her mother.  “Lizzie!” her mother drawls in delight.  “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today, dear!”

“I know,” Lizzie says, smiling as she measures flour into a bowl.  “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Is everything all right, dear?” her mother says, her voice now concerned.  “Is William all right?”

“Yes,” Lizzie says.  “I just wanted to tell you that I love you.  I don’t tell you that enough, Mom.”

Her mother is silent for a few seconds as the words sink in.  “I love you too, Elizabeth.  Always, dear heart.  You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Lizzie says.  “Is Dad there?”

“He is,” her mother says.  “Just a second.”  Lizzie hears shuffling about and murmuring as her mother hands the phone off to her father.  “Hey, girl,” her father says, his voice warm and rumbly.  “What are you up to?”

“Making dinner,” Lizzie says. 

“What are you having?” he asks.

“Fried chicken,” Lizzie answers.

“Is it too late for me to catch a flight to San Francisco?” he teases, and she laughs.  “What’s up, child of mine?”

“I just wanted to call and tell you and Mom that I loved you,” she says. 

“We love you too,” her father says in return.  “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, too brightly, and her father knows her better than that.  “Lizzie.  You’re making fried chicken.”

She sighs.  “Don’t tell Mom?”

He chuckles.  “How many things do we talk about that I don’t tell your mother?”

“Lots,” Lizzie admits.  “This week—it makes twelve years since Will’s parents died.”

She hears her father take in a breath, one that sound suspiciously like he’s got his pipe in his mouth as he does so.  “I see.”

“I didn’t know until Fitz told me today.” she says softly.  “Will hasn’t said anything.”

Her father is definitely puffing on his pipe now, and he takes a moment before he answers.  “Keep in mind, Lizzie, that he’s still getting used to having someone to rely on for the everyday things.  A burden shared may be a burden halved, but he has to be willing to share it.  And this is so personal, he may not be ready to do that yet, because in some ways, his grief is how he’s still holding on to them.”

Her father’s words stay with her as she finishes cooking dinner.  Will comes home, and he still looks tired, but he smiles as he leans against the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie.  “Something smells good.”

She pulls the biscuits from the oven with a flourish and flashes him a grin. “I thought a home-cooked meal sounded good.  Here.”  She hands him plates and silverware.  “If you’ll set the table, we’ll be ready in no time.”

 

Darcy dreams again, this time of Gigi and George, of the words Gigi throws in his face when he grits his teeth and writes George a check to make him leave his sister alone.  “Dad never would have done this,” she wails at him.  “How could you do this, William?”

When he tries to explain, tries to give her a calm, rational explanation, she just explodes again.  “God, William, don’t you get it?  He’s an orphan, too!  He gets what it’s like to be alone.”

Those words wound him more than anything else, and he takes a step back as if she’s actually hit him.  How can she feel alone when he’s been here for her?  He thought he was her rock, her solid ground, her pillar of strength.  It was the two of them against the world, wasn’t it?

In that moment, he realizes just how much he relies on her, because without Gigi, _he_ is alone, and he reacts the way he always does, in anger.  “No, Dad wouldn’t have done this, Gigi, because he never would have allowed this to happen in the first place!”

“You are not him!”

He turns around and walks into the kitchen before she can see his expression and what she’s done to him.  They’re both miserable at this moment, and they both should be, and it’s not fair that the only one even remotely happy right now is George Wickham, and Darcy’s furious with himself that he didn’t follow through with his first inclination when he found George half-naked on Gigi’s couch and throw everything he had into one punch right into his former friend’s face.

His chest hurts, right behind his sternum, the same spot that’s felt empty for nine years.  He moves mechanically to get a glass to get himself some water, but he can’t make himself turn on the faucet.  Instead, he hurls the glass across the kitchen, letting it shatter against the wall, the pieces just as broken as he and Gigi are.

 

He wakes up again and is grateful that he hasn’t woken Lizzie this time.  He rolls over to look at her in the dark, her pale skin almost glowing in the moonlight, her dark red hair spread out over the pillow.  He loves her so much that it’s almost painful to look at her sometimes, because there are times he’s afraid, deep in his soul, that she will end up broken too.  Intellectually, he knows that’s ridiculous, but in the middle of the night, at the beginning of October, those fears rise up inside him. 

He gently pulls her to him, reveling in her warmth.  Lizzie sighs softly in her sleep, and he thinks, briefly, that he’s too selfish to let her go.


	3. 1:30 pm, October 1st

At one-thirty, he leaves a meeting, and stops at Mrs. Reynolds’ desk outside his office.  “Is there any way you can clear my schedule for the rest of the afternoon?” he asks quietly.

She doesn’t comment on the request—she’s been at Pemberley longer than he has, and she knows what this week holds for him.  With a few clicks, she nods.  “That shouldn’t be a problem.  I’ve also cleared your schedule for tomorrow.”

He nods.  “I’m going to turn my cell phone off for a while.  Put through Gigi or Lizzie if they call.  Otherwise, emergencies only.”

“Does that include business emergencies?” she asks, “or only real emergencies?”  He’s grateful for an assistant who knows the difference. 

“Real,” he answers, escaping the open area before he can get corralled by one of the design directors.  He shuts the door to his office and closes the blinds on the windows.  It’s not unusual for him to do so when he needs to get work done, but today, instead, he turns out the light and stretches out on the sofa.   It’s still too small for him—he’s 6’1” and his feet hang over the edge, but there’s going to be no working this afternoon.

He squints at his desk.  There’s paperwork there, but his diplomas from Stanford shine in their frames behind it.  He’d taken a hardship withdrawal from Harvard after his parents died and transferred to Stanford so he could live at home with Gigi and commute to school and to Pemberley.  He’d scheduled all his classes three days a week so he could spend the other two days in San Francisco learning about the company, moving around departments, getting a sense of what everyone did and how things worked. 

He would get home almost the same time his parents would have each day.  Gigi would be sitting at the island in the kitchen while the housekeeper made dinner for them, and they would eat.  She would tell him all about her day at school, then the two of them would do their homework together, Darcy transitioning from accounting, finance and economics to long division, algebra and geometry and back.  He spends time explaining the news to her, especially that March when the war in Iraq begins and Gigi doesn’t quite understand why Andrew Marcum, the general’s son who attended the Air Force Academy, is leaving for halfway around the world, and he tries to present things to her in a way that lets her draw her own conclusions, that lets her ask questions, rather than simply accepting his point of view.

His aunt Catherine hates that.

His Saturday mornings are filled with taking Gigi to swimming practice, or increasingly, swim meets, and he works hard to make almost every competition she has.  She’s fast in the water, much faster than he was at her age, and when she gets taller, he won’t be able to beat her across the pool anymore.  He gave up diving when he left Harvard, even though he’d made All-American his freshman year, and sometimes, if she’s at a slumber party with her friends, he goes out to the pool and goes through the motions, just to feel the physical release of energy.

It goes without saying that there’s no woman in his life, not until Gigi turns sixteen, and he begrudgingly gives her permission to date.  Her cheeky response is to turn around and give him permission to date as well.  She knows he’s held off, unwilling to bring a woman into her life without some sense of permanency, and he very reluctantly re-enters the dating scene.  Now, though, he’s twenty-six, and has been CEO of Pemberley Digital for a year, and that brings its own level of pitfalls.  Eventually, he gives up.  Caroline can always be depended upon to accompany him when he needs a date.  Gigi pouts a little, but he knows she just wants him to be happy.  He tries to convince her that he is happy, but she never quite believes him, and that’s why she texts him and pushes him into an office one day without warning—so he comes face to face with Lizzie Bennet.

It had been the end of October, after he'd grieved again, when he told Lizzie that he’d fallen in love with her.  He’d known that she was taking up all of his thoughts for a while, and finally, he’d grown tired of waiting.  Life was short—he knew that better than most—and he couldn’t hold it back any longer, couldn’t wait until he gathered his thoughts, planned out what to do and say.  All he knew was that he had to say something to her, had to take a chance, because there was no telling what the next day could bring.

He’d left Collins and Collins, angry and bitter and still inexplicably in love with Lizzie.  Fitz had endured the silent treatment on the way back to Los Angeles for not telling him about the videos; Darcy never would have made such a fool of himself, no matter his feelings, if he’d known how Lizzie saw him.  Two days later, he’d been back in San Francisco, but instead of going back to his apartment, he’d gone home.

His aunt Catherine had redone his parents’ bedroom one summer—without his or Gigi’s permission—but the trunk at the end of the bed was still packed with some of their things.  He’d sat in front of the trunk and opened it, closing his eyes as his mother’s perfume wafted out.  He’d bought Gigi a bottle of the same perfume when she turned eighteen.  He’d pulled out the blanket his mother would wrap herself in, reached in and found the ratty sweatshirt his father had saved from college, the one Darcy had rescued from his aunt Catherine’s clutches when she tried to throw it out, and had simply asked the universe—asked _them_ —what to do.

Ten years of silence remained unbroken.

The door to his office creaks open.  He doesn’t bother lifting his head from the sofa, because Mrs. Reynolds would only let two people in today—Gigi or Lizzie.  The door shuts quietly, and his sister comes to sit on the floor by the sofa, leaning her head against his arm.  “I emailed my professors.  Told them I wasn’t going to be in class tomorrow,” she says.

“We can go after you get out of class,” he replies.

Gigi shakes her head.   “I don’t think I’ll be much good in class anyway.  And I haven’t missed all semester.”  He doesn’t press it.  She’s conscientious about her classwork, for all that she’s taking college slowly since she transferred to Berkley.  “You haven’t been sleeping,” she says.

He makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat that she can interpret however she likes.

He doesn’t expect what she says next. “Do you think they’d be proud of me?” she asks.

Darcy half sits up out of shock that she needs to ask that question.  “Do I what?”

“Never mind,” she mumbles, but he won’t let that go.  He reaches up and turns on the lamp so he can see her, but she doesn’t look up to meet his eyes.

“Gigi,” he said.  “Why would you think they would be anything other than proud of you?”

“I’m going to graduate a year behind,” she says.  “I’m graduating from Berkley, not Brown.”

“You’re a graphic designer, Gigi,” he says.  “Berkley is ideal for you.”

“I just think about what you were like at my age,” she says.  “You were juggling college and Pemberley _and_ me, and I don’t know how you did it.”

He breathes out.  “We all do what we have to do.  You needed me.  Everything else could have waited.”

“Sometimes it did,” she says.  She pauses a moment before she laughs.  “Do you remember the day I got my period?”

Darcy lets his head bang back against the armrest of the sofa. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that again.”

She laughs. “I was at home on spring break, and the housekeeper had called in sick.  You were at school, and I called you in an absolute panic.”

“Laugh all you want to.  I got a speeding ticket on my way home,” Darcy says.  “And then I had the humiliating experience of having to go into the drugstore.  I had no idea what I was doing.  If the elderly woman who worked there hadn’t taken pity on me, I’d still be standing there.”

“And then you decided, two days later, that it meant we were going to have to have the talk about sex,” she reminds him.  She tucks her chin back and deepens her voice to mock him the way she does when she and Lizzie still act out costume theatre in the living room.  “Georgiana, now that you’re going through certain changes, we need to talk about a few things.”

He wishes he could cover his ears and his eyes at the same time.  “Please stop.  I don’t need to have my attempts at parenting critiqued.”

“Hey,” she says, nudging him.  “You did just fine.  No pregnancy, no STDs, no drugs, no arrests.”  She winks at him.  “It might have helped that I was almost obnoxiously good as a teenager.  But you did a great job and made sure I was doing what I needed to do.”

They fall into silence for a moment, and then he speaks.  “I wonder sometimes if our parents would be proud of me.”

“Seriously?” Gigi asks, and he recognizes the incredulous tone in her voice.  “William, Pemberley is flourishing.  You take care of the people who work for you, just like Mom and Dad did.  You graduated summa cum laude from _Stanford_.  You managed to raise a hormonal teenaged girl without killing her or her friends.  That’s pretty impressive.”

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” he says quietly.  “I’ve wondered if I’d have been different if they’d still been here.”   He’s wondered if he could have danced less awkwardly with Lizzie at Ellen Gibson’s wedding, if their relationship could have progressed normally if he’d had his parents to ask for advice, if perhaps he wouldn’t have wasted so much time.  He’s wondered if he and George would still be friends, because he’s sure his father wouldn’t have given George all the money for college at once—he would have doled it out a year at a time, contingent on his grades, and then perhaps Gigi and Lydia wouldn’t have the scars they have now.  He’s certain he and Fitz wouldn’t have had to have talked their way out of assault charges in Orange County last year.

“I’m proud of you,” Gigi says, propping her chin up on her hand.  “For what it’s worth.”

He looks at her.  She looks so much like their mother, sometimes, and he wants everything to be perfect for her.  He’s wanted her to live a charmed life, has tried to make that happen.  Maybe he’s been overbearing and overprotective, and part of it is because he’s just as afraid of her growing up as he is of her being hurt, and after all, aren’t those often the same thing? 

“Thank you,” he says, trying not to choke on the words.  She has turned into a graceful, elegant young woman, full of passion and energy and love, everything that he remembers associating with their mother, and now that she is an adult, her pride in him means more than he can express.  “They would be proud of you too,” he says.

“You think so?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says.  She is beautiful and brave and while she’s been broken, she’s made herself stronger.  “I know I am.”


	4. 5 pm, October 1st

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for such kind comments! I really appreciate hearing from you, and I'm so glad that you're enjoying the fic. :)

It’s a sign of how tired he is that when he leaves his office at five, he realizes that he’s forgotten that Lizzie had a meeting in the conference room down the hallway here at Pemberley.  Bennet Productions and Pemberley are working on a joint project for Jacob Brinkley, who had been a long time Pemberley client, but who liked the look of Lizzie’s work.  Lizzie had been suspicious that Darcy had sent Brinkley in her direction, but he’d been more surprised than she had.  It had been the first time that they’d understood what being competitors really meant.

But the project was going to be good for both companies; Lizzie was handling the creative side, while Pemberley was working the technical aspects that Bennet Productions simply couldn’t handle yet—hence Fitz’s presence.  There are others there as well—one of Lizzie’s design directors, one of the techs from Fitz’s department—but they scatter as soon as the meeting is finished, while Lizzie, Fitz, and Brinkley keep talking. 

“Ah, Mr. Darcy,” Brinkley says, holding out his hand, and Darcy holds back a grimace.  He doesn’t like Brinkley—almost no one does, which is part of the reason why if he had been sending clients Lizzie’s way, Brinkley wouldn’t have been one of them—but he holds out his hand and shakes anyway. 

“Mr. Brinkley.  Things are going well?” he inquires.

“Yes,” Brinkley says.  “I believe this project will be exactly what I need for my new product launch.”  Fitz is standing behind him and rolling his eyes.  “Ms. Bennet, you’d mentioned wanting to come up to Los Angeles to meet with my product team.  I’m returning Monday.  I’d be more than willing to give you a lift.”

Darcy stills.  Brinkley flies on a private jet everywhere he goes, mostly because he wants an ostentatious symbol of conspicuous consumption, but it’s one of those small, corporate planes, and he _does not_ _want Lizzie on it_.

His brain is furiously working, trying to come up with an excuse for Lizzie not to take Brinkley up on what is an essentially reasonable offer (even if it would mean spending a few hours in Brinkley’s presence), and he sees Fitz frantically mugging behind Brinkley for Lizzie _not_ to agree, and he should know that Fitz has his back, because Fitz almost always does.

Lizzie’s gaze flicks from Darcy to Fitz, then back to Brinkley, and she’s gotten much better at not telegraphing her thoughts on her face since she started her own business, so her reply is smooth.  “Thank you, but I’ve some other projects that require my attention next week.  I should be able to get up there by the end of the month, though, and we’ll teleconference until then.  Thank you again, though.”

Brinkley takes it in stride and leaves, and the three of them all let out a sigh of relief as the door closes behind him.  “He,” Lizzie says, “is an odd duck.”

“You said it, Lizzie B,” Fitz says, glowering in the direction that Brinkley took to exit.

“ _Mr._ Darcy?” she repeats, looking over at Darcy.  “I’ve never heard anyone call you that, especially someone that much older than you are.”

“I don’t like people to call me Mr. Darcy,” he says absently, still shaken by the thought of Lizzie on the private jet.  “I always end up turning around and expecting to see my father.”

The silence is brief, but awkward, and in that moment, as Lizzie gently squeezes his hand, Darcy _knows_ that Lizzie knows what tomorrow holds.  She’s said nothing, and he’s not sure what to make of that, but she knows, and that at least means he doesn’t have to tell her.

“Well, I’m glad you aren’t going anywhere with him,” Fitz says, breaking the awkwardness, as he always does.  “I’m pretty sure the man has sexual congress with goats.”

Darcy and Lizzie both roll their eyes.  “Fitz,” Lizzie says, “I don’t think he’s the star of an Edward Albee play.”

“You’re still angry with him for trying to pick up Brandon at the charity auction last year,” Darcy says.

“I was standing _right there!_ ” Fitz exclaims.  “I’d kissed him not two minutes before!  And then I have to be nice to the man when he comes in here.   You owe me a raise, Darcy.”

They send him off with the reminder that Brandon is at home waiting for _him_ and not Brinkley.  They have a brief discussion about dinner, and Darcy suggests going out, but Lizzie studies his face and tells him that, no, it’s all right, she’ll cook again.  He knows dinner won’t be fancy, but he recognizes the effort she’s making, all the little efforts she’s been making the last few days, and he’s reminded once again of how much he loves this woman.

 

 

Neither he nor Lizzie are morning people, though they’ve both trained themselves to survive mornings out of necessity.  It’s part of the routine, then, for Lizzie to take a shower and dry her hair before she comes to bed.  Most nights, he joins her in the shower, though that’s less about getting clean and more about being with her.  There is something sensual about climbing into the shower with her, watching the suds of her body wash sluice down her skin.  Even when it leads nowhere—sometimes especially when it leads nowhere—he enjoys it, because he can look and touch and for a few moments, they are locked away from the world, just the two of them, with only the warmth and the water and each other.

Tonight, though, she’s been through the shower by herself, and he can hear the blow dryer as she takes care of her hair.  He’s sitting in the living room with a mug of tea and a photo album he’s pulled out from where it’s normally hidden away.

The first picture is the wedding portrait of his parents.  His mother’s dress is huge; it’s styled much like Princess Diana’s wedding dress was, but for as out of style as the dress might be, the look on her face is simply radiant as she looks out toward the camera. 

What always catches his attention about this photo, however, is his father’s face.  His father isn’t looking straight out to the camera—his father’s face is tilted toward his mother, with such an expression of awe and love that it’s almost painful to look at, and Darcy realizes he’s seen this same look on his own face, usually in the bathroom mirror, standing behind Lizzie as she gets ready in the morning.

He turns a few pages, past photos of his parent’s honeymoon in Paris, past photos of his mother, hands over her pregnant belly, past some of his own baby pictures.  There’s one his mother took of him at age four, according to the handwritten inscription, of him in the pool, water wings and his father keeping him afloat.  There’s one at age six of he and his mother at Disneyland, meeting Mickey Mouse, that he remembers being taken.

There’s a picture of him holding Gigi for the first time.   She was so tiny.  He’d sat carefully on the small chair in the hospital room.  His mother had been exhausted, but happy, and his father had gently placed the bundle of little sister in his arms.  He hadn’t been quite sure what to do, other than to hold on and look at her, but Gigi had opened her eyes and looked straight up at her big brother, and he’d immediately fallen in love.

There are more pictures, of course, and he flips through the pages quickly, because he knows Lizzie will be finished soon.  A picture he’d taken of his mother helping Gigi try to walk. Pictures of him reading to Gigi as a child.  Gigi dressed up as a princess for Halloween.  His father warily handing him the keys for his first driving lesson.  (There’s also a picture of the dent in the bumper – Anne Darcy’s caption says “Will’s first accident.”  In Darcy’s seventeen-year-old handwriting next to it, “It wasn’t my fault!” has been added.)

He hears the blow dryer stop, and he shuts the photo album, setting it under the coffee table as Lizzie walks into the living room in her pajamas.  She leans against the wall, looking at him with concern, as if she can see the tears that have misted in his eyes and been brushed away.  “Hey.”

He looks up at her and manages a smile.  “Lizzie.”

She comes and sits on the armrest of the sofa and puts her arms around his neck, and he puts his arms around her and breathes in the smell of her soap and shampoo and _her_.  “Do you want to talk?” she offers softly.

He can feel himself stiffen, and her hands gently rub along his shoulders, trying to relieve the tension, as he wonders if he can.  “Not yet,” he finally says. 


	5. 6:00 am, October 2nd

He gets up when their alarm clock goes off, even though he isn’t going into the office.  Lizzie stumbles out of bed, blearily rubbing at her eyes.  They do their morning trade-off in the bathroom, then he strips and gets in the shower while she gets dressed. 

They’re sharing the mirror before they’re both awake enough to start talking.  She’s pinning her hair up, and he’s running a razor over his face before she asks “Is there anything that you need me to do today?”

He wipes the excess shaving cream off his face and shakes his head as he reaches for his glasses, which is an immediate clue that he’s not planning on going into the office today.  “I’m going to spend most of the day with Gigi,” he says.

“Do you want me to clear out this evening?” she asks, watching his reflection in the mirror as she digs into her makeup kit. “So you can have some more time for the two of you?”

“I’ll be home by the time you get back,” he says, shaking out his towel and hanging it over the rack.  “Gigi has plans tonight.  Apparently, she and Lydia are both getting on Domino and—“

“—starting their epic tandem _Buffy_ marathon,” Lizzie finishes, seeming to remember.  “Apparently, when they get to the sing-along episode in a few months, we’re supposed to join them.  Fitz has already agreed.”

He chooses to ignore precisely what _that_ means for the moment, but he’s still glad that Gigi has made plans to distract herself tonight, and if anything is capable of keeping his sister distracted, surely, it is the combined charms of Lydia Bennet and a young David Boreanaz (a name he only knows because Fitz wouldn’t shut up about him at the time).  “Anyway, no, I want to spend time with you this evening.”

She moves behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso, pressing her cheek against his bare back.  He covers her hands with one of his, the other supporting him against the counter, and they stand there for a moment, giving and receiving comfort.  “I love you,” she says, her lips tracing the words into his skin.

He turns around, taking her face in his hands, and leans down to kiss her, because when he can’t find the words, he goes back to actions.  He only means it to be a kiss, but today, when he has so little that separates him from the rest of the world, it turns into more, because she reminds him that he is _not alone_ and that he does not have to carry the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, and he suddenly realizes that he has her backed up against the door to the shower. 

He breaks away, leaning his forehead against hers.  Her face is flushed, and she’s breathing hard.  He means to tell her that he loves her too, but what comes out instead is a plea. “Don’t ever stop telling me that. Please.”

“I won’t.”

 

He and Gigi always go to the cemetery first thing in the morning.  He doesn’t like to think about it as getting it over with, because that’s not how they think of it, but it makes the day smoother because they don’t have the trip hanging over their heads and can spend the rest of the day trying to focus on the happy memories, rather than the sad.

The plot is well-cared for.  They visit several times a year—birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day—plus whenever else they feel they need to go by. The headstone is dark, but the shine is still on it, outlining the simple text—the names and dates.  The monument company had asked if he’d wanted to put other text on it, but he’d finally declined, because there was nothing in language that would adequately express who his parents were, what they had been to each other, what they had been to Gigi and himself. 

Gigi gently kneels down and lays down the flowers they’ve brought, brushing her fingers over the names.  “Sometimes it feels like it’s been forever,” she says.  “I’ve lived longer without them than I did with them.”

He extends his hand to help her up.  “I feel that way sometimes, like it’s something that happened in the distant past.  Then there are days like today.”

“They told me it would feel better,” Gigi says, wiping away a tear at the corner of her eye.  “The counselors that I saw.  That someday, it would stop hurting, but they were wrong, William.”

He draws her in under his arm, knowing what she means.  “I don’t think it’s ever going to stop hurting completely, Gigi.  I don’t think it can.”  Not when it happens like this, he thinks.  Perhaps if your parents have lived to see a long, happy life, and they are ready to go, and they can go in dignity, it won’t hurt, but his parents were still young, and had too much yet to do, and he does not allow himself to think about what their last moments must have been like, because he fears that if he does, he may never be able to come back to himself.

 

Lizzie tells her assistant that she’s going to take a long lunch.  She gets in the car and heads across town, because she needs to do this today.  After Fitz had told her about Will’s parents, she’d done some research, and it hadn’t taken much for her to find where they’d been buried.

The cemetery is quiet and peaceful, the wind rustling the leaves in the trees as she carefully makes her way through the rows of graves.  The caretaker had kindly marked the map for her, and she finds the Darcys easily.  A bouquet of calla lilies is already lying there, and she breathes a sigh of relief, because she’s fairly certain that means that Will and Gigi have already been here.   She doesn’t think they’d mind that she’s come, but meeting them here would have been awkward.

She sets down the small bouquet of mixed blossoms she’d bought, though it looks rather pitiful next to the calla lilies.  It doesn’t seem right, though, to just put them there, and then leave.

So she begins speaking.  “My name is Lizzie Bennet,” she says, her words spilling out into the October air, and she hopes that somewhere, William and Anne Darcy can hear her, “and I love your son.”

If this had been one of her videos, this would be where the intro would come, but a gust of wind blows by instead.  “God, I love him so much,” she says, looking up at the sky.  “I know I treated him horribly, once upon a time, but he’s forgiven me for that.  I hope you’ve forgiven me for it.  He’s everything I never knew I wanted and needed.”

She sniffs, trying to figure out why _she’s_ crying here.  “He’s a good man.  You probably know that, but you might want to hear someone else say it.  He’s such a good man.  He takes care of the people he loves.  He does you both proud, every single day.  And Gigi!  I can’t forget to tell you about her.  She’s amazing.  She’s so vibrant.  Gigi lives her life with her arms wide open, and I think she’s learning to live it with her heart wide open again too.”

She finally has to pull out a tissue to wipe her eyes.  “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m sniffling so badly.  But someone had to come and tell you how awesome they are.  And Will—I know you never have to worry about Gigi, because she’s always got Will to look after her, but Will hasn’t had anyone to look after him.  But you don’t have to worry about him anymore, because I’m going to look after him.  I’ll make him sleep instead of working all night, and I won’t let him forget to eat.   I’m not going to let him shut himself away from the world any more.  I’m going to remind him every day that he’s always got someone who will support him and who will love him, no matter what.  He’s got me, and I’m not leaving.”  She takes a deep breath before she makes a promise to two spirits who have long since left this world.  “Not ever.”


	6. 5:30 p.m., October 2nd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so astonished at all the comments from the last chapter, you guys! I consider it to be the weakest part of the story.
> 
> This chapter is the part where I cried, because the way the Bennets act in this chapter is the way my family has acted my entire life, and for that, I am so incredibly grateful.

He and Gigi do whatever they feel like.  They get breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall diner that serves what are possibly the best pancakes in existence.  They walk through parts of the Mission District, where the art galleries are all getting ready for Open Studios, and Darcy reminds himself that in two more weeks, the Mission District will host LitQuake, and he should bring Lizzie down to enjoy the celebration of books.  It’s just part of the reason he loves living in San Francisco.

His aunt Catherine meets them for a late lunch, which isn’t entirely pleasant.  She doesn’t like Lizzie much—the feeling is mutual, though Lizzie at least _tries_ , for his sake—and he’s more than once had to politely remind his aunt that his love life is _his_ love life, and he thinks that if he hears the words “prenuptial agreement” ever come out of her mouth, he can’t be held responsible for his actions.

He and Gigi see an old movie at a theatre, and they stroll a bit more afterwards.  “Do you think you and Lizzie are going to get married?” Gigi asks, as they pass a jewelry store.  She’s usually much more enthusiastic about it—in fact, she drops hints more strongly than Mrs. Bennet sometimes, but her tone is curious, almost reflective, and he knows she’s heard the undertone of Catherine’s irritation too.

“One day,” he says.  “I hope.”

“You could give her Mom’s ring,” Gigi says. 

“The jewelry belongs to you, Gigi,” he reminds her.  Most of it is still in a safety deposit box at the bank, with the exception of his mother’s pearls, which Gigi had asked for a few years ago.  He’d gladly retrieved them and still loves seeing his sister wear them.

“You know I don’t mind, William,” she says.

“Sometimes the thought of it feels right,” he says.  “Sometimes it doesn’t.”  He’s had a hundred different possibilities cross his mind, and while indecisiveness is not something that defines him, it seems to be the rule here.  But he’s found that things have a way of falling into place when Lizzie Bennet is around, and in that respect, he’s just waiting for them to do the same here.

He takes Gigi back to her apartment so she can order her takeout before she gets online to watch _Buffy_ with Lydia.  He’s on his way home when his cell phone rings, and he reaches out to the dash to answer it, automatically putting it on speaker.  “William Darcy.”

“William, it’s David Bennet,” a deep voice says, and Darcy feels his heart suddenly clenched with panic, because he can’t imagine why Lizzie’s father would be calling him unless it was an emergency, and he knows that Mr. Bennet is still listed as Lizzie’s emergency contact.  He swerves into the parking lot of a gas station without braking or using a turn signal, causing the driver behind him to blast his horn, but Darcy has already snatched up his phone and pulled it to his ear.  “Mr. Bennet?  Is everything all right?” he asks, throwing the car into park. 

The other man must hear the fear in his voice, because his next words are immediately calming and soothing.  “Everything’s fine, William.  I’m sorry, I didn’t think that my calling out of the blue would give you a scare, but I should have.”

“No,” he says, letting out a breath, “it’s all right.”  He reaches forward and turns off the car.  He knows enough about Mr. Bennet at this point to know that if Lizzie’s father is calling, though it might not be an emergency, it is probably important, and he doesn’t want to risk missing part of the conversation through the speakerphone.  “What can I do for you?”

“Actually,” Mr. Bennet says, “I was just calling to check on you.”

Darcy pauses for a moment, his mouth suddenly dry.  “I—I didn’t realize Lizzie had talked to you about this.”

“Lizzie mentioned it briefly,” Mr. Bennet says.  “Lydia was the one who brought it up, actually, when she was kicking me out of the den for whatever she’s watching with your sister.”

“ _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ ,” Darcy supplies under his breath.

“Yes, that’s it,” Mr. Bennet says, his tone amused.  “But Alice and I were talking this afternoon, and we wanted to check in personally with you and see how you were doing.”

“I’m doing all right,” he says, giving the automatic response he’s given for years. 

Mr. Bennet makes a sound in the back of his throat that suggests the older man doesn’t believe him.  “I’ve never told you about my own father, have I, William?”

“No, sir,” Darcy says in reply.

“I was sixteen when I lost my father in Vietnam,” Mr. Bennet says, and Darcy suddenly remembers seeing a frame behind Mr. Bennet’s desk now, with a rubbing that must have come from the memorial in Washington D.C.  “That was in 1970.  I was a brash young man, back then, full of the hippie movement, resentful that my father was a military man, resentful that he was gone all the time.  Until one day, the MPs were at our door telling us that he was gone forever.”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy says, because there seems like there’s nothing else he can say.

“It was a long time ago,” Mr. Bennet says.  “And I’m not telling you because I want you feel sorry for me, William.  I’m telling you because I want you to know that you’re not alone.”

Darcy nods to himself.  “I appreciate that, sir.”  His voice is hoarser than he would like.

“I want you to understand something else, son,” Mr. Bennet says kindly.  “You belong to us now.  That may not seem like a lot, but Lizzie has said to me that you take care of the people you care about.  The same thing goes around here.  We Bennets may not have a lot of resources, but we’re loud and we’re stubborn, and we make a pretty decent cup of tea. We consider you ours, so if it is in our power to help you, support you, or anything like that, we will do it.  Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy chokes out.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Good,” Mr. Bennet says.  “I think Mrs. Bennet wants to talk to you, if you’re up to that.”

“Of course,” Darcy says, and he hears a shuffle on the other side of the phone before Mrs. Bennet’s drawl comes through the phone.  “William, dear,” she says.  “Are you doing all right?”

“I’m going to be just fine, Mrs. Bennet,” he reassures her.  “I appreciate the call, though.”

“Well, sweetie, on a day like today, a body needs to know that he’s got people who care about him around,” she says.  “I know Mr. Bennet’s already talked to you, but I just wanted to tell you that if you need anything, you call, you hear?  Day, night, I don’t care.  We’re here if you need us, even just to talk, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Good,” she says.  “Now, I know Lydia’s coming down on fall break in a couple weeks.  Do you want me to send you some lemon bars or some of them pecan tassies you like so much?”

He’s learned by now that protesting that she doesn’t need to send anything is useless.  He’s also learned that anything Mrs. Bennet bakes is heavenly.  “Lemon bars sound wonderful.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” she says, her voice cheerful.  “Besides, if I make lemon bars, there’s a better chance Lydia won’t eat them all on the way down there.  Now, you listen, you go and let my Lizzie take care of you today, all right?  And you remember that we love you.”

“I will.”  They say their goodbyes, and he hangs up the phone.  It takes him a minute to pull himself together enough to go inside the gas station and buy a bottle of water, and he’s certain that Mrs. Bennet is tutting to herself in her kitchen and blessing his heart.

 

Lizzie is just finishing pouring vegetables into the spaghetti sauce when Will comes in the door.  “Hey,” she says, as he walks into the kitchen.  He looks exhausted, even though his glasses are hiding the dark circles under his face.  “I thought we’d do Italian tonight.  Sound okay to you?”

“That sounds great,” he says, coming over and kissing her lightly. 

“How is Gigi?” she asks.

“Good,” he says, setting his glasses down on the counter and rubbing his eyes.  “We had lunch with my aunt Catherine.”  He pauses for a moment, as if reflecting on something.  “Catherine said something at lunch—about flowers.  Lizzie—“

She looks up at him, but his back is to her as he empties his pockets into the basket on the bar—keys, wallet, but he stands there looking at his phone.  “Lizzie,” he says softly, “did you go to the cemetery today?”

His tone is very carefully neutral, and he’s still turned around, facing away from her, so she can’t tell what he’s feeling. “Yes.”

He puts his phone in the basket and starts shuffling through the mail, tearing up and throwing away the junk, opening others.  “There’s a package from Bing here,” he says, taking the box over to the island.

Lizzie picks up a pair of scissors and brings it too him, almost too quickly, still unsure if he’s angry with her or not, if she'd overstepped, taken too much that he wasn't ready to give yet.  He takes the scissors from her and cuts the string on the package without looking up at her and peels away the brown paper, and then Lizzie’s heart is in her throat, because she can recognize a Jane Bennet care package a mile away—and this one says ‘Darcy’ on it.

The look on his face is still unreadable; it’s the look she’s seen a few times in meetings or when she’s seen him teleconferencing.  He pulls off the lid and begins taking out the contents.  The food is immediately obvious—Jane’s baked chocolate chip walnut cookies, and there’s a jar of Nutella, a canister of loose leaf tea, and some kind of marmalade.  The fun is in some sudoku and crossword books, a small metal disentanglement puzzle, and Michael Pollan’s newest book.  The love, she thinks, is in the note, and she can make out Jane and Bing’s signatures at the bottom of it as he reads it, his jaw clenching as he does.

“I didn’t say anything to her,” she says. 

“No,” he replies.  “I imagine this was partly Bing’s work.”

She goes to open a bottle of wine while he puts the fun back into the box and the food away in the cabinets.  He takes the glass she hands him gratefully, though she nearly drops hers when he says “Your parents called me today.”

“Oh my God,” she says.  “Whatever my mother said, I am so sorry.”

He shakes his head.  “Apparently, Lydia had commandeered the den for the evening and explained why.  I had a long talk with your father.  They were just checking in to see if I was all right." He takes a breath. "Does your family always take in strays?”

“Stray dogs, stray cats, stray kids,” Lizzie says, turning to stir the sauce.  “Yeah, pretty much.  Why?”

He comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her.  “I think I’ve been adopted," he whispers into her hair.  "They wanted to let me know that I belong to the Bennets now.“

The tears spring to her eyes before she can help them, and she reaches back to cup his head in her hands, thanking God for her family, her crazy, wild, dysfunctional family who is so incredibly full of love and so willing to show it to anyone who darkens their door.  “You do belong to the Bennets,” she says.  “And you belong to me.”


	7. 2:15 a.m., October 3rd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little short, due to pacing reasons. It also starts off a little weird--stick with me here. 
> 
> This story is not just mature for the subject matter, but also for language and sexual content in this chapter.

The phone rings, and he picks it up off the nightstand, blearily.  “Hello?”

Mr. Bennet’s voice comes through the other side, and suddenly Darcy is awake, because Lizzie’s father rarely calls him, and never at four-thirty in the morning.  “William,” the other man says, his voice shaking.  “William, I’m so sorry.  Lizzie’s gone.”

“What?” he says hoarsely, and Mr. Bennet tells him, tells him that Lizzie must have decided to drive from her meeting in Los Angeles to the Bennets’ house in Bakersfield, must have intended to surprise them, but the car was totaled and she was gone.  Mr. Bennet is barely holding it together, and Darcy feels himself shaking, tells him he’ll be there as soon as possible.  He calls Fitz, almost in a stupor, and once Fitz is awake, once Fitz has heard the words “Lizzie” and “wreck” and the half cough, half sob that comes out when he can’t say the word “gone,” his friend already on his way.  He and Brandon both show up; Brandon has already booked his flight by the time they get there, and Fitz packs him a bag.  It’s eerily similar to years ago, but Darcy feels even more powerless now.  There is no one to take care of now, nothing for him to focus on but the way his heart has been torn out of his chest, the way he wants to die himself.

The Bennets’ house is somber.  Mrs. Bennet cries, but she locks herself away in her bedroom.  Mr. Bennet’s hands shake as he makes arrangements.  He tries to let Darcy have some say, but Darcy still can barely process what’s happened.  Lydia wanders around the house, looking lost, because for all the time that she and Lizzie spend arguing, her older sister has been her rudder, gently pushing her in the direction she needs to go.  Jane and Bing finally arrive, Jane’s face white and drawn.  Bing shuffles between her and Darcy both, trying to do whatever he can.  Darcy finally escapes, goes up to Lizzie’s old room, though it resembles her room even less now.  Some of her clothes are still in the closet, though, old sweatshirts and hoodies, and he pulls one down, takes it to bed with him, breathing in her scent.

Gigi is there for the funeral.  She holds his hand, tries to get him to talk. Fitz convinces her to let him be.  It’s not until they’re ready to shut the casket, when he’s taking his last look at her, that he finally breaks down, finally loses it, mourning her and the loss of everything he’s ever hoped for.  He’d had these dreams, of nervously standing at the front of a church and watching her come down the aisle, of chasing toddlers through the house, of growing old with her, of years of happiness and laughter.  He can’t—he can’t—

 

Lizzie wakes up and spends five minutes trying to decide if she’s thirsty enough to bother getting up out of the bed to get a drink, or if she can ignore it long enough to go back to sleep.  Finally giving in, she slips out from under the covers and heads to the bathroom, shivering.  Either she’s going to have to turn the heat up, or she’s going to have to wear something warmer than shorts and a tank top to bed, because Will already complains that she steals all the blankets, although he’s got no business complaining about that, given the number of times she’s had to yank them back over to her side of the bed.

She swallows the last of the water and sets the glass down on the bathroom counter before she hears him.  “Lizzie?  Lizzie!”  There’s panic in his voice, something she’s never heard before, and she dashes out of the bathroom to see him standing in the middle of the bedroom, eyes wild as he looks around.  “What?  What is it?” she asks.

He grabs her and crushes her to him.  He’s breathing hard, and she can feel his heart pounding.  “You weren’t there,” he murmurs, his hands clenching in the fabric of her tank top. “You weren’t there.”  He pulls back, cupping her face in his hands, then running his hands down her arms, as if he’s making sure that she’s here, that she’s whole and safe, but his strong, steady hands are shaking.  

“It’s okay. I’m right here,” she says, reaching out.  She lays a hand on his bare chest, over his heart, as if that will help settle its pace, and that simple touch seems to undo him. 

He dives for her, his mouth taking possession of hers, no gentleness, only need, and his fingers are already scrambling for the hem of her tank top, stripping it off of her without ceremony as he presses her close, skin against skin.  If she’d been cold before, she’s not anymore, because he’s burning up, completely on fire, but this is different than it ever has been.  He’s a gentleman, but things are not always gentle—sometimes they’re hard and fast and rough, and she loves that too, but this has something else behind it, something that feels like desperation.  She could tell him to stop if she wanted, but he has never needed her like this, so she kisses him back, letting her hips grind against his arousal as his hands ghost over her breasts.

He picks her up, taking the two strides to the bed without ever stopping kissing her, and when he lays her down, he pulls her shorts and her underwear off together, losing his own pajama pants and boxer briefs almost immediately after.  His mouth traces along her neck, his hands running up and down her body.  He’s not wasting time—he knows exactly what will make her beg for him, and he’s doing it all at once.  She’s ready for him in no time at all, and she pulls him on top of her, letting out a breathy sigh as he slides into her.  “Fuck,” he groans as she moves underneath him—he hardly ever uses that kind of language, has to be completely lost in emotion for it to escape his lips.

He slides an arm under her back to tilt her hips up, and she can’t help but vocalize her pleasure as they hit their rhythm.  His other arm is supporting him above her, and he keeps leaning down, taking her mouth as they move together.  They know how to do this now, know how to play each other’s bodies, how to give each other what they need.  She digs her nails into his shoulders as she comes, and with only a few thrusts more, his whole body shudders as he follows her.

He’s still breathing hard a few moments later as she strokes his back, before he finally rolls over toward his side of the bed.  She follows him, draping a leg over his, resting her head on his shoulder as he rubs his face with his other hand.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers into the darkness.

Of all the responses he could have given her, she wasn’t expecting that.  Lizzie props herself up on her elbow. “What for?”

“I didn’t mean to—“ he gestures, trying to sum up everything in that hand wave.

She uses a finger against his chin to turn his face toward hers so she can look him in the eye, then she leans down and kisses him.  “No apologies, Will.”


	8. 6:30 p.m., October 3rd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter! Thanks for sticking with me this week and for all the comments and kudos. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
> ETA: I uploaded this chapter in the early afternoon of April 15, 2013. Approximately an hour later, two bombs went off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. As I write this addendum to my note, it's about three hours after that. Suddenly, the subject of this story has become very much more real, and all the fears of losing those we care about, rational and irrational, have all come rushing in on me this afternoon in a way I never expected. 
> 
> Words--by which I make my living--are failing me right now, so all I will say is this. Many of you have told me in the comments that after reading this story, you have wanted to call your family and tell them you love them.
> 
> I'm asking you not to put it off anymore.

He’s half an hour late and hasn’t called, and Lizzie’s starting to get worried—not because he isn’t home, but because he hasn’t called.  He’d been awake when she’d gotten up, but had barely said two words to her, then he’d texted to cancel their usual Friday lunch out.  Her texts back to him that afternoon had been answered back tersely—she’d had more luck getting a response out of an email about Brinkley’s project than anything else, and the text she’d sent mid-afternoon saying _I love you_ had gone unanswered.

She’s wondering now if she really has done something wrong.  There’s a ball of dread and discomfort rumbling its way around her stomach, and she takes another sip of her tea before checking the clock again.  It’s only 9:30 on the east coast, so she picks up her phone and calls Jane, but the call goes to Jane’s voicemail instead, and Lizzie groans, putting her head down on the counter, because on days like this, she really needs her big sister.  She toys briefly with the idea of calling Charlotte, but she hasn’t talked to Charlotte about any of this, even though her best friend would be more than willing to listen.  Still, this is Will’s issue, and even though it seems like everyone else in creation knows what this week has been, she’s not going to start spreading things around.

She begins going over the last few days again in her mind, trying to track down exactly what she’s done that could have made him angry with her.  Is it that she went to the cemetery yesterday?  She didn’t mean to intrude, but she’d felt like she’d needed to go.  And she hadn’t meant for him to find out—of course Catherine de Bourgh had said something about her mixed bouquet, probably something nasty about how it looked like it was straggly and had come from a discount store (which was totally _not_ true, because Lizzie had gone to an actual florist and bought the mixed bouquet because it looked cheery, and if cemeteries needed anything, it was something to cheer them up a little).  It had been something she’d meant to do for herself, more than anything else.  Was that part of the problem?   That she hadn’t told him?

Was it that she hadn’t made him talk about it?  Was he expecting her to sit down and ask him questions?  She’d been trying to respect what he needed, and she’d learned a long time ago that pushing him to talk about things when he wasn’t ready wasn’t a good idea, because while she was used to talking every little thing out with her sisters, he was used to holding things in, going over them in his mind until he had his options sorted out and was ready to ask for advice.  Was it that her family had suddenly intruded on what had been a very private grief?  He’d learned to tease back, accept second helpings from Mrs. Bennet without arguing, even how to hook up model train rails, but he’d still always kept part of his quiet reserve—his teasing was still dry and delivered with a deadpan expression, he let Mr. Bennet fight battles with Mrs. Bennet on his behalf, and he attacked the train set with the same concentration he used for everything else.

Talking to yourself isn’t the same as talking to people, she thinks as she hears the jingle of keys at the door.

 

Darcy had stopped on his way out of the office on when he’d driven out of the garage and realized one of the secretaries was standing over her car with the hood open, cursing the fact that she’d left her headlights on that morning.  It took only a few minutes to jump the battery to her car, but by the time he’d done so, washed the grime off his hands, and sent himself a reminder to make sure the building security guards had jumper cables in case this happened when someone was working late, he’d put himself enough behind traffic that it took longer to get home than he’d intended.  He’s not entirely unhappy about that, because he’s a little afraid of what she’ll say when he gets there.  “Lizzie?” he calls tentatively as he opens the door.  “I’m home.”

He sets down his briefcase by the door, pulls off his jacket and his tie, draping them over the back of the sofa.  Lizzie appears in the doorway to the kitchen.  “Hey,” she says.  Her voice is soft and uncertain, and he feels it like a punch to the gut.  He’s barely been able to function today with the way guilt has been lying on his shoulders, and he swallows hard.  “How was your day?”  he asks, crossing over to the bar. 

“It was fine,” she says, watching him pour himself a finger of scotch into a glass.  He catches a glimpse of her in the mirror as he takes a drink, and he can see that she’s wringing her hands.  He closes his eyes, because he has to say something, because despite what she said in the early morning hours, he _has_ to apologize, _has_ to try to tell her something.  He opens his mouth, but she beats him to words like she always does—“Are you angry with me?” she asks, the words rushing out of her mouth, as if she’s afraid she won’t say them if she doesn’t say them all at once.

“What?” he asks, turning around to face her.  She’s still standing in the doorway, hands still held tightly together, and she’s worrying her lower lip now, and he is completely, utterly dumbfounded.  “Angry—Lizzie, why would I be angry with you?”

She shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another.  “You didn’t talk to me this morning, and you cancelled lunch,” she says, looking at the floor.  “And I thought maybe you were angry because of this week, and that I’d done something wrong.”

“ _Lizzie_ ,” he says, setting the glass down.  He feels even worse now.  “God, no.  It’s not that.”

She finally looks up at him, but her expression is clearly still worried.  “Maybe we should go in the other room and talk.”

He nods slowly, figuring that they would have ended up there eventually.  When she’d first moved to San Francisco, they’d had a month of bliss before they’d had their first real argument.  He couldn’t even remember what it was about now, but they’d both been unreasonable and said things they shouldn’t have.  They’d spent two miserable days not speaking to each other.  Afterwards, they’d decided together that their arguments couldn’t go on that way and that they would have to make themselves sit down and communicate, and the guest bedroom at his apartment had been set aside as a designated space where they could sit and talk and more importantly, _listen_.

He takes her hand as she holds it out to him and leads him down the hall.  Her fingers are cold, and he’s trying to figure out what he’s going to say, how he’s going to say it, but one of the rules is that he gets to take as long as he needs to figure it out.

The guest bedroom is painted a silvery blue, a calming, restful color, and he’s glad for that as Lizzie perches on the edge of the bed. He sits down on the small bench for the desk, propping his elbows on his knees, and he knows the first thing he has to say.  “I’m not angry with you, Lizzie.  I don’t know what I did in a previous life to deserve you, but I am so grateful, especially for the last few days.  And I know I haven’t shown that particularly well, but I can’t bear for you to think that you’ve done something wrong, because you haven’t.”  He reaches out and takes her hand again and draws it to his lips. 

“I wasn’t sure,” she says.  “I didn’t know if I was pushing too much, or not enough, and then my parents and Jane’s care package—“ she drops off.  “Last year, I didn’t—I should have known, and I didn’t.  But I wanted you to know that I was here for you.”

“I knew,” he says, managing to smile a little for her.  “You made fried chicken.  You never make it unless something’s wrong.”

“I didn’t think it was _that_ obvious,” she mumbles.  “I didn’t know about everyone else getting involved, though.  I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

“It did, for a little bit,” he admits.  “But I needed it, Lizzie.  I don’t think I knew how much.”

Her hand sweeps over his shoulder.  “But you are upset about something,” she says.  “And you can’t convince me otherwise.  You cancelled lunch, and you came home and poured yourself a scotch.  So what’s wrong?”

He takes a deep breath and looks away from her again.  “Last night.”

“What about it?” she asks.

“I shouldn’t have—“ he pauses.  “I didn’t exactly behave like a gentleman.”

She tips his chin up with a finger.  “Did you hear me complain?”

“You deserve more respect than that,” he insists.

“That’s not what you’re upset about,” Lizzie says.  “Or that’s just part of it.”

He doesn’t want to tell her.  Doesn’t want to let her know what his subconscious has been doing over the last week, but slowly, hesitantly, the words come out.  She listens as he tells her about the nightmares, reliving what he’s been through.  Her hand grips his as he chokes through, even though he leaves out the details—just tells her that he dreams about when his parents died, their funeral, the holidays without them, Gigi’s high school graduation, the words Gigi had thrown in his face when he’d found her with George.  “And then last night—“ he sucks in a breath.  “Last night, it was about you.”

“Will,” she says softly.  “I’m right here.  I’m not going anywhere.”

He makes himself loosen his grip on her hand before it becomes painful.  “I woke up, and the bed was empty.  And for a few seconds, I thought it was real.  I thought I’d lost you.”

Somehow, they meet in the floor, sitting up on their knees, their arms around each other.  “It’s okay,” she repeats over and over again.  “I’m right here.”  All he can do is hold on to her. 

Eventually, he finds his voice again.  “I’m terrified, Lizzie.  Back when I first met you, I tried not to fall in love with you.  And I wonder, sometimes, if I unconsciously sabotaged myself with you at the beginning, because I knew what falling in love meant.  But I couldn’t stop myself.  Now I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but I am afraid that something outside my control could take that away in an instant.”

“I don’t know what to say to that,” Lizzie says.  “I mean, there are all of the things that I could say about life being risk and all that, but that’s not particularly helpful.  I can’t see into the future, and I can’t tell you what’s next for us, but I can tell you this.” She looks him straight in the eye.  “William Darcy, I love you, and as long as I have any say in the matter, I will never leave. Got it?”

She’s smiling at him, and he recognizes the tone and some of the words from what he considers to be one of the best days of his life, and he nods, tucking her hair behind her ear, because this wonderful, beautiful woman is with him, and for now, that’s going be enough.  He nods and finally smiles at her as he speaks.  “Clear as day, Lizzie Bennet.”


End file.
